


New Message

by jedusaur



Category: Bandom
Genre: Gen, M/M, Obedience, Texting, nonsexual kink
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-24
Updated: 2011-05-24
Packaged: 2017-10-22 02:30:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/232733
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jedusaur/pseuds/jedusaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Mikey's ringtone is a single half-second chime, because if it were anything more obnoxious than that, no one would spend any amount of time with Pete without throwing his phone out a window.</p>
            </blockquote>





	New Message

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Italiano available: [New Message](https://archiveofourown.org/works/6371647) by [blurryfaceiero](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blurryfaceiero/pseuds/blurryfaceiero)



> _Thanks to[](http://zarathuse.livejournal.com/profile)_[ **zarathuse**](http://zarathuse.livejournal.com/) for the beta.

Patrick's ringtone in Pete's phone is his voice singing Bronx to sleep. Ryan's is a twenty-second clip of "Northern Downpour." Gabe's is a recording of him saying, "I am not fucking drunk enough for this shit," repeated six times.

Mikey's ringtone is a single half-second chime, because if it were anything more obnoxious than that, no one would spend any amount of time with Pete without throwing his phone out a window.

The chime wakes him up, like it does every morning—at least, every morning that Pete wakes up at all, instead of just staying awake from the night before.

 _morning pete_ , the message says.

The phone chimes again a second later. _go brush your teeth._

Pete drags himself out of bed and into the bathroom. _eyeliner?_ he texts back one-handed while he's brushing.

_pencil not liquid. don't smear it._

Pete digs out his eyeliner pencil and rings his lids carefully. When he's finished, he picks up his phone again. _okay done. getting dressed now. no important meetings today._

 _yellow_ , comes the reply. Pete pokes through his clothes and picks out a yellow T-shirt and belt to go with his jeans. He doesn't have any yellow shoelaces, so he leaves in yesterday's black ones.

He goes out for a casual business brunch ( _omelet & home fries, don't chew your ice_, says Mikey) and spends the afternoon sorting through old snippets of lyrics ( _turn on the light_ , Mikey tells him just after sunset). He calls his mom because he hasn't in a while ( _ask her about that charity thing she was all worked up about last month_ ) and watches a few episodes of "LA Ink" ( _put some lotion on it_ , says Mikey, referring to the tattoo Pete got last week). He goes to bed before two AM, which is early for him.

 _can i jerk off?_ he asks.

 _only if you're still awake in an hour_ , says Mikey. _try to go to sleep._

Pete tries, and for once he succeeds.

***

It starts during that summer, the Warped tour when they meet and click and stay clicked. Pete doesn't notice, at first, that he's turning over all of his decisions to Mikey. He's just always there, perched on Pete's dressing room table or propped against the doorway, always willing to weigh in, and Pete isn't very good at kicking his own ass when someone is there to kick it for him.

The extent of it doesn't register until the summer is over and he doesn't have Mikey anymore. It takes three days of struggling to pay attention to all the boring but necessary little bits of life before Pete finally texts him: _been standing here for 10 mins trying to decide between red converse and green. wouldve been out the door on time if you were here._

Mikey texts back, _green. scoot._

He doesn't seem to mind, so Pete starts prodding him for motivation more and more often, until they settle into a routine and he doesn't have to prod anymore. The minutiae lift away from Pete's shoulders and he can function again.

It's not a sex thing, it's a life thing. Pete doesn't even know Mikey's sexual orientation. He asks permission to masturbate like he asks permission for everything.

Pete's good at big shit, at dramatic gestures and life-affirming declarations and roaring crowds. It's the little shit he needs help with, because if he's left to his own devices, the molehills start piling up until he forgets how big a mountain is supposed to be. Mikey takes away the molehills and lets Pete focus on the real mountains in his life. He knows Pete better than either of them know themselves.

Pete laughs when he hears people use the term "bromance." They don't know shit about bromance.

***

When Pete splits up with his wife, he stops texting Mikey.

He still does everything Mikey says, and every new order is a shiver of relief, but he doesn't respond. He doesn't ask. It's too much. He's been here before, tumbling through the crumbling avalanche of a relationship he thought would last forever, and he knows what happens when he puts these feelings on someone else. Better to keep to himself, work through the worst part on his own, and come back when he's better equipped to preserve boundaries.

Mikey lets him get away with this for a day and a half before he calls.

"Breathe," he says, no greeting, no questions.

It's a command, and it tilts Pete's whole world a little off-balance, because they don't talk about this. Even when they're together in person, all the instructions come by text. They haven't done this out loud in years, not since the end of that summer, before it really became a thing. Now it's happening in Pete's ear, and he doesn't know what to make of it.

"Stop fucking hyperventilating," says Mikey calmly. "In. Out."

Pete breathes, and wonders how long it's been since the last time he filled his lungs completely.

"Okay," says Mikey when he's gotten himself under control. "Tell me what's going on."

"I don't want to dump all my shit on you," says Pete. "I've got a lot of shit to dump right now, and I'm not good at moderation. I'm like an attention sponge, I'll never leave you alone."

"Don't worry about it," says Mikey. "I like it."

"You like it?" says Pete, confused. "You mean, like..."

"No," says Mikey. "Not like that. I just like it. It works. Quit fucking with it."

So Pete talks. He takes down his filters and pretends he's typing his words with his thumbs, and he tells Mikey everything. It doesn't make him feel any more relieved to let it all out, not like releasing a pressure valve. It doesn't fix anything. But it feels right, more right than anything else has lately.

When he stops long enough to catch his breath, Mikey says, "I'm flying over."

"It's okay, you don't have to—"

"I'll be there tomorrow evening," Mikey continues, like Pete isn't talking. "I'll e-mail you my flight info. Pick me up at the airport and we'll go out clubbing."

They do. They separate on the dance floor, checking back in with glances every once in a while. The bodies and the music don't do much for Pete, but the knowledge that there's someone over there caring what happens to him does. It helps a lot.

He tries to grind with a ripped, straight-looking guy, just to see what will happen. The guy knocks him over with a solid punch to the jaw. Pete kicks out at his shins from the floor until Mikey shows up. "Sorry, he's drunk," Mikey says, even though Pete isn't. "I'll take him home."

Pete goes where Mikey leads him, and ends up in bed, being tucked in like a little kid. It's all he needs right now, not age regression so much as responsibility regression. He just wants to let someone else take charge.

Mikey stays for a few days, until Pete has his feet under him a little more solidly. Then he goes home and starts texting constantly again. Pete likes having Mikey around in person, but there's something comforting about hearing his phone go off over and over, counting the choices Pete doesn't have to make.

***

 _morning_ , says the text that wakes Pete up. _go shower. use the leave-in conditioner._

Pete gets up, and showers, and uses the leave-in conditioner. He takes a picture of himself after he's combed it in, grinning like a silent hyena, and sends it to Mikey.

 _you haven't clipped your toenails in two weeks_ , is Mikey's response. _clip quick, you've got 17 minutes to get ready._

Mikey knows how long it's been since the last time Pete clipped his toenails, and he knows where Pete has to be this morning and how long it will take him to get there, and Pete needs that chime like fucking oxygen.


End file.
